


The Seminar

by TheCookieOfDoom



Series: Revocation [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Bondage, Dacryphilia, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Impact Play, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Spanking, Sub Stiles Stilinski, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22946950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Mitch gets invited to give a seminar at a BDSM conference, and Stiles offers himself up to be his lovely assistant.
Relationships: Mitch Rapp/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Revocation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649110
Comments: 15
Kudos: 67





	1. The Seminar

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I've been having a bit of a dry spell when it comes to writing, for the last 2 months or so. I had a really rough semester last fall that hit me hard, and it took longer than I thought to bounce back from it. And then recently I've gone through some pretty bad personal stuff, the most difficult of which being a bad breakup with my best friend. So uh, along with the emotional turmoil, that leaves me without a beta! Because of that, I have no idea when I'll be able to update Estranged again. The next chapter is the biggest in the entire fic and I really don't want it to be a let down, but now I don't have the help I really, desperately need on it, so. It pains me to do it, but Estranged is officially on hold : / In the meantime I'm going to try and find my muse again, but a lot of (read: all of them) my fics are heavily tied to my friend, given that all of my ideas went through them, and that makes trying to work on them again... really painful.
> 
> Edit: Minor Content Warnings 
> 
> This chapter starts off light with some easy spanking, and gradually works up to more intense things (riding crop, switches/canes, flogger). If that's not your bag, skip to the end when Mitch removes Stiles' restraints.

"It's not too late to back out, you know. I could probably find someone else to do this," Mitch offers. Stiles looks up at him, sees that Mitch means every word. Only moments before they're supposed to go on stage, and he's giving Stiles an out.

Stiles stops fiddling with his robe—the sleek black satin poured over his body, slick and cool—and smiles up at him. "I'm sure," he says honestly. Stiles has the utmost confidence that Mitch will take care of him tonight.

"Alright." Mitch checks his watch—they still have a few minutes to kill. He doesn't think anyone will mind if they got started a little early. Besides, getting Stiles into the right frame of mind, nice and worked up so he can really enjoy himself, is only the responsible thing to do.

Mitch pulls Stiles in by his waist and kisses him tenderly. His lips are dry and swollen from constant nervous biting, but Stiles melts into him with a pleased hum. It doesn't take long for the sweet kiss to devolve into something filthy, made up of teeth and tongues and panting gasps. Stiles bares his throat for Mitch to kiss when he pulls away to add the first of many marks that will decorate his skin tonight. Mitch overs him in peachy pink bites that will bloom red soon enough, certain to darken to purple by morning.

" _Mitch,_ " Stiles groans, rising to his tip-toes. Mitch slides his hands along the backs of Stiles' thighs, pushing up his short robe to grab his ass.

"You're gonna look so gorgeous tonight," Mitch says, coming back up to nip Stiles' bottom lip. "All red and pretty for me."

Stiles laughs breathlessly, dizzy with the implication. He knows what Mitch is going to do to him tonight—they rehearsed it to make sure nothing would come as a surprise, to make sure Stiles could _take it_ —but this time they'll have an _audience._ Several dozen strangers are going to watch his lover take him apart. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"I've been told I have that effect on people." Mitch grins when Stiles rolls his eyes in exasperation. "You'll fine. It's nothing we haven't done before."

"Right. And I've got the easy part; I just have to lay there and take it." Brushing his hands through Mitch's hair is soothing. The familiar, comforting scent of his shampoo reminds him that he won't be alone out there. Stiles smiles when Mitch bites his earlobe chidingly, tugging on a dark lock in retaliation. "Sorry, sorry, I know." The way Mitch sees it, _he_ is arguably doing the hard part. It takes a lot of strength and trust to withstand the kinds of things Mitch is about to do to him. Warmth and fondness flood Stiles—he knows Mitch will take care of him. "Let's do this."

"You sure you're ready?"

"As ready as I can be."

"Alright." Mitch smiles and cups Stiles' cheek to give him another sweet kiss, then leads him out onto the stage.

Seminar attendees are still filtering into the small auditorium to find their seats while Mitch sets up. The stage is largely empty, with only a desk, chair, and padded stand that Stiles will occupy for the night. Mitch checks over the items on the desk to make sure everything's in order, and Stiles tries not to notice all the people. They make it easy for him, talking amongst themselves, shrouded in shadow.

Is there anyone out there that knows him, Stiles wonders? Someone who recognizes him under the stage lights, who won’t be able to look him in the eye next time they meet. Or maybe they would touch themselves at night, thinking about the way he looks, wearing nothing but a black robe that barely reaches the tops of his thighs, brushing against his skin in a sordid tease.

Mitch snuck up behind Stiles while he wasn’t paying attention and hugged him from behind, his arms a gentle restraint. “Should I blindfold you? It might make it easier,” he murmurs against Stiles ear.

“No…” Stiles leans back into Mitch’s chest and ignores the way his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I like looking.” 

“Of course, you do.” Mitch grins against Stiles’ ear, nips him gently, then moves his hands down to his waist. “C'mon. I want to get you warmed up.”

“Put on a little pre-show, you mean," Stiles says, wiggling his butt against Mitch. It earns him a soft spank that makes him laugh, some of the tension loosening form his shoulders.

Mitch takes a seat at the conveniently provided chair and pats his thigh, indicating for Stiles to sit down. Straddling his lap makes the robe pull up, exposing Stiles to the room. He shivers and buries his face against Mitch’s neck, imagining the dozens of eyes in the room devouring him, drinking in the picture they make. Stiles spread open and wanton for all to see and for Mitch to touch as he pleases.

Warm hands smooth over the swell of Stiles’ ass and squeeze, then spank him. Just a light swat that makes Stiles jump, more from being startled than from any real sense of pain. Mitch kisses his neck and repeats the spank across his other cheek, then resumes his soft rubbing and fondling. Stiles risks a small moment of acting out to grind against Mitch, figuring he’s already being punished tonight, so he may as well earn it. The denim of his jeans is rough against Stiles’ dick, just the right kind of chafe that makes his blood hot.

“Behave yourself,” Mitch chides without heat, spanking Stiles harder. It only serves to make Stiles jolt forward, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide his rutting. Mitch has barely touched him yet, and already he’s hard and leaking. “Needy whore,” he says fondly. Mitch shows some mercy—the only mercy he’ll receive for the next hour—and wraps a hand around Stiles’ cock to slowly stroke him.

“God, Mitch—”

“If you don't come before we start, you’ll be waiting until we’re done.”

” _Fuck."_ Stiles groans as Mitch rubs his thumb just under the head of his cock, thrusting his hips forward. Come on, I can't." They have less than five minutes. There’s no way Stiles can come that fast from Mitch’s teasing strokes, keeping him just on the edge and making no attempt to push him over. But Mitch is merciless.

"Tough.” Stiles whines, high and pitiful, and knows with certainty that they’re drawing attention now. He can hear three people in the front row, betting on whether or not Mitch will let him come. Knows that Mitch can hear them as well, by the way hums and meanly whispers, “I don’t think I will.”

Mitch’s watch beeps at 7pm sharp and Stiles cries with anguish when Mitch releases him. He was so _close._ The sweet kiss Mitch presses against his flushed cheek is patronizing.

Stiles hastily tries to cover himself when Mitch pushes him off his lap, pulling down the front of his immodest robe. Mitch stand and spins him, makes him face the audience fully while he unties the sash holding his robe closed. Stiles can feel his blush spreading when Mitch pulls it apart to fully expose him.

"There's no need to be modest, darling. We'll be seeing a lot more of you than this soon enough," Mitch says, projecting his voice loud enough for the faceless audience to hear. He pushes the robe off Stiles shoulders and gently grabs his wrists to pry his arms apart. Stiles is flushed all the way down to his chest as the robe drops quietly to the floor, his hard cock on full display for everyone to see. Mitch gives him two slow pumps almost as an afterthought, although Stiles knows the move is deliberate. "Such a needy little thing. Clearly you're ready to get started. What do the rest of you think?"

An appreciative murmur rolls through the crowd, interspersed with louder shouts of agreement.

"You heard them. Come on." Stiles follows Mitch over to the padded stand and lets himself be bent over it, wondering—not for the first time—if he's gotten in over his head. Then Mitch runs a comforting hand down the length of his spine and softly pats his ass, and Stiles remembers that he's as safe here as he is in his own bed.

Stiles spreads his legs obediently when Mitch kicks his feet apart, putting them against the padded bars of the stand so that Mitch can shackle them in place. The restraints are leather lined with something softer, to keep them from chafing against his skin; they're going to be there for a while. After his feet are tied down Mitch moves onto his wrists. There is a horizontal bar connecting the front legs of the stand for Stiles to hold onto, a small comfort.

It's an odd position to be in, but not terrible. Stiles isn't fully bent over the way he would be on a bed or a table. Although he knows the stand is adjustable, and Mitch certainly could have him that way if he wanted to. For now, Stiles' chest is elevated a few degrees, keeping more weight on his feet, and keeping his blood from rushing to his head. It's going to be a long evening, and none of them want him to start it off with a migraine.

"How does that feel?" Mitch asks when he's done. Stiles gives a quick tug to test the hold—the restraints are sturdy and he has little room to move, but they aren't digging into him.

"Good." He's held open and defenseless, unable to do a thing about the crowd looking at him. The thought is more thrilling than it should be. "I'd prefer your hands around my wrists, though."

"I'm sure you would." Mitch smiles softly, brushing a hand through Stiles' hair. It's soft and unstyled tonight, since he would only end up sweating out whatever product he tried to put in it. "Do you need anything? Last chance before we get started."

Sheepishly, Stiles squirms and says, "I kind of have to pee…"

"You're kidding."

Stiles can't help snickering at Mitch's flat tone and expressionless glare. " _Yes,_ I'm kidding. I don't think I could even if I wanted to, since _someone_ left me in a predicament." Stiles groans when Mitch swats his ass playfully, biting his lip. "I'm fine, Mitch. Ready when you are."

"Okay." Mitch scruffs his hair fondly, then takes his place closer to the front of the stage to introduce the evening's seminar.

"Thank you all for coming tonight. None of you look shocked by the state of my partner, which is always a good sign. Hopefully you're all in the right place, and know what will be happening tonight. But in case you need a refresher: we'll be covering how to best incorporate impact play into your scenes."

Stiles lets his eyes fall closed as he listens to Mitch speak. This is his first time participating in a seminar, but Mitch has been giving them for years, and is old hat at it by now. Listening to him speak is fascinating; his stage presence is completely different from how he acts on an individual basis. Stiles shifts a bit in place to get comfortable, discreetly rocking forward on his toes to grind against the padded stand. Mitch is wonderful to listen to, but that doesn't mean Stiles can't entertain himself while Mitch goes over the introduction.

***

Stiles is snapped out of his stupor by Mitch sharply spanking his ass, abruptly reminded where he is and what he's there for. Mitch tsks at him once he knows he has Stiles' attention.

"I thought I told you to behave yourself, Stiles."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles. He doesn't mean it even a little bit, and smushes his face into the headrest in hopes Mitch won't see the lack of contrition on his face.

"I'm sure you will be," Mitch warns lightly. He pats Stiles' butt and addresses the audience. "One use for impact play is corporal punishment," he says, and anticipation zings up Stiles' spine. That wasn't in the script until later; trust Mitch to improvise at Stiles' expense. "I think now is a great time to demonstrate."

The stand has Stiles lying parallel to the audience. Mitch has to walk around to the other side of it so that everyone can get a full view of Stiles lying tied down and helpless. Stiles clenches his teeth and Mitch fists his free hand in his hair, forcing him to stay facing the audience.

" _Ah!_ " The first spank is harder than Stiles was expecting, landing several degrees sharper than the playful warm up Mitch just gave him. But it's nothing he can't take, and Mitch soon follows it with another.

Apparently, Stiles' indiscretion earned him six strikes, three on each cheek. When Mitch is done his ass his pink and pleasantly warm, the blood rising to the surface. Mitch rubs his butt reassuringly, then walks over to the desk; it's time for the real punishment to begin.

"I personally think it's best to use your hand for corporal punishment," Mitch says conversationally while he peruses the items he has to choose from. Stiles already knows the order of escalation—his indecision is only for show. To get the audience riled up with anticipation. "It's more intimate that way, and you can really _feel_ the way your partner reacts. But, as I said, there are other means of impact play that aren't necessarily to punish naughty behavior."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles. Mitch doesn't pause in his lecture, but he does smack the side of Stiles' thigh as if to say, _No you're not._

"Sometimes, pain isn't the goal. Sadomasochists aren't the only one who utilize it this kind of play. In that case, you may want something a little softer, but with more variety than just a regular spanking." Mitch holds up a newspaper; there's nothing special about it, it's just the morning paper. "Most of you probably get a newspaper on your lawn in the morning, and I'm willing to bet most of you don't read it." The audience laughs politely, curiosity piqued at the seeming non sequitur. "Lucky for you, it's good for more than just reading.

"You _could_ just roll it up like you're going to kill a spider, but that's not very sexy, is it? More juvenile, the kind of thing you would run around tormenting a sibling with. Instead, if you fold it like so…" Mitch flicks open the stack of papers so that he can fold them into a rectangle that's not quite as wide as his palm, and tucks in the edges to keep it from unfolding itself. Then he abruptly swats it against Stiles' ass with a loud _crack!_

"At least two of you flinched," Mitch observes with a grin. "It doesn't actually hurt, but it _is_ dramatic. Good for getting your partner's attention, or if they have somewhere important to be tomorrow. Do you, Stiles?"

"No," Stiles answers, and Mitch spanks him with the newspaper again.

"Good! Then we can continue." The newspaper is abandoned on the table in favor of a ruler. Stiles shivers as it's run up the back of his thigh and lightly tapped against his butt, waiting for Mitch to strike. "Rulers are the next step up. They're easily attainable, and sturdy enough that you can get some real force behind them."

_Crack!_

Stiles jolts as the unforgiving edges of the ruler bite into his soft flesh, exhaling sharply. _God, this is tapping into so many fantasies._ Stiles has always had problems with authority growing up, and that lead to some very cliché fantasies growing up. One of them was definitely getting bent over his desk by a teacher and spanked with a ruler, told how much of a naughty boy he was. When Mrs. Martin came to teach at the school, her class was a special kind of hell; Stiles still has no idea how he survived with his dignity intact.

"Yardsticks are better if you want more leverage, but we'll get to that in a minute." Mitch isn't as fond of rulers as he is towards other things, but it serves its purpose of getting Stiles ready to take the bigger things later.

Wanting to work him up slowly, Mitch takes a few more shots at Stiles' ass and the top of his thighs, until his skin is flushed red and warm to touch. "Isn't that pretty," Mitch comments, smoothing his hand over one burning check while the audience murmurs in agreement.

Stiles feels like the only part of him that isn't red is from the knees down, but he's glowing with the praise anyway. Even without Mitch holding his head in place he looks out over the audience, drinking in his unknown voyeurs as they watch Mitch slowly take him apart.

"We're getting to the good part, now. I'm sure you're all familiar with riding crops?" Mitch replaces the ruler with the aforementioned crop and bends it between his hands, testing the give like it isn't something he regularly uses. Stiles shivers at the sound of creaking leather, and jumps in place when Mitch slaps it across his palm. "This is another one that's good for dramatic effect."

Mitch walks around to stand in front of Stiles, coaxing him to lift his chin with the end of the crop. One of their agreed-upon check ins. Stiles is red-faced but smiling, giving an imperceptible nod to show that he's okay to proceed. Mitch taps his cheek twice, a condescending slap that's hard enough to hear, and leave a red mark on his face, and resumes his position behind the stand to continue.

"But unlike the newspaper, it _hurts._ "

Stiles gasps at the first _crack!_ of the crop against his skin. Unlike the ruler, the sting left in its wake is a deep-seated kind of ache that lingers, makes him squirm to get away, shoving his hips against the stand because there's nowhere else for him to go. The moan Stiles lets out is obscene, and Mitch's grin is positively predatory.

"Did I mention that a riding crop is another excellent tool for corporal punishment?" he asks innocently, like it slipped his mind by honest mistake. This time Stiles' groan is one of frustration at falling for such an obvious trap, but he can't bring himself to regret it. Instead he squirms even more, his cock sliding against the smooth leather beneath him, wanting to eke out as much pleasure as he can. Mitch swats his ass but makes no other attempt to stop him. If anything, it only encourages Stiles. "Someone give me a number between five and fifteen," Mitch says idly, spanking Stiles at random intervals.

"Twelve," a woman shouts from the middle of the room. Stiles stops, knowing full well that Mitch won't count any of the strikes his already given.

"Do you think you can keep count, Stiles, or do you trust them to do it for you?" Mitch asks sweetly, petting Stiles' burning ass with the end of the crop.

"I can do it," Stiles rasps.

"I hope so. I don't want to tire you out too soon with even more punishment."

Stiles whines when the next blow is harder than the last eight, sharper. "One," he gasps, and forces himself to keep still.

_Crack!_

"Two."

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

_"_ Fuck!"

"Not quite."

Mitch's clothes rustle as he rears his arm back for more, and Stiles rushes to answer, "Five! Five, it was five," before Mitch can start over. Behind him Mitch laughs. Stiles presses his face into the cool surface of the headrest, condensation gathering beneath from his open-mouthed panting.

"Good boy," Mitch soothes.

The remaining seven strikes are evenly distributed across his ass, leaving bright red marks. Tears leak down Stiles' cheek and sweat is dampening his skin by the time Mitch is done with him, making him slide against the stand. His body is on fire and he wants to come so desperately that it _hurts,_ but a broad palm against his flank makes him rethink. They've already established that his hopeless rutting will get him punished—which means Mitch isn't going to let it slide until he gives permission.

Stiles groans in frustration but stills his hips. Mitch is already going to put him through the wringer tonight; there's no need to bring even more punishment on himself. Even if the momentary bliss seems more than worth it.

"I'm okay," Stiles whispers once he gets his breathing under control, grateful for the slight reprieve. Mitch squeezes his hip reassuringly.

"Before we continue, it's important that you know when to give your partner a break. Both to give them a chance to recuperate, and," Stiles cries out when Mitch spanks him with his open palm, writhing against the restraints because he didn't expect it, _Jesus,_ "it makes them more sensitive when you start again," Mitch finishes. Stiles can hear the smirk in his voice, the bastard. "A minute or two should be long enough. But as a general rule, the more intense the play, the longer the rest period. And of course, healing times should be taken into account between scenes."

Stiles is sad to see the crop go, but they have to move on. The next item on Mitch's list is a favorite of his, one he uses on Stiles whenever the opportunity presents itself. Stiles almost wishes he has a gag for what's coming, but by the same token, screaming and crying helps him manage the pain. And he knows how much Mitch likes to listen to him beg.

In preparation of their next item, Mitch takes a small break to lower the stand so that Stiles is bent fully over it. Then he kneels down to release him from the restraints, pressing a kiss to each wrist. The tender gestures makes goosebumps rise along his sensitive skin.

"Ready?" Mitch asks him softly. Stiles nods.

"Hit me with your best shot."

"Hm, remember you said that, later." Mitch presses a quick kiss to his forehead then moves on, stopping only briefly to unbuckle the cuffs around Stiles' ankles as well before continuing.

"I mentioned yardsticks—those are the more general-purpose option. They're not a bad idea if it's something you want to try a few times, or if you're not sure you'll like it. But if you're interested in more long-term play, you could consider something a little more _precise_." Lying side by side on the desk were three switches. Polished wood, with carved handles and a leather wrist strap. Each is a different size, to serve a different function; Mitch picks up the mid-sized switch first, and doesn't bother with the strap.

"Have you heard the term 'rule of thumb'?" Mitch asks rhetorically. He bends the switch the same way he did with the crop, running his palm down the length of it. Demonstrating to the audience that is in fact the width of his thumb. "This is what it refers to." That's all the warning Stiles gets before Mitch swings the switch. He can hear it whistle through the air a split second before it cracks against his untouched thighs.

" _Fuck!_ " Mitch ignores his outburst; they agreed long before now that Stiles is free to be as loud as he likes. Rather than continuing with a follow up the way he's done so far, Mitch presses the tip of the switch into the ground like a cane, and addresses the audience to give Stiles a moment. Unlike the crop, the switch _actually_ hurts, a conflicting mix of sensation that makes his cock hurt as much as his ass.

"I won't go into the colorful history now, but the gist of it is this: a man couldn't beat his wife with anything thicker than his thumb. As you can see, that doesn't take much sting out of it—"

"No, it doesn't," Stiles interrupts hoarsely, breathing hard. Mitch cracks him with the switch again and he snaps his mouth shut, whining through his teeth.

"And don't worry, ladies; even if you have daintier hands than me, you can still get some mileage out of switches."

Mitch switches Stiles five more times, with ten second breaks between each strike. Each one makes him writhe and cry, before he has to force himself to still for the next. Leaving him unbound was as much a gift as a curse—it means Stiles is responsible for holding his position, with nothing to keep him in place. Stiles never has been very good at keeping Still.

"If anyone's curious, that thing he's doing is called the masochist's dance. It's an aspect of pain processing, which we'll get into later, but it's the reason I untied him. If I left him tied down, this would be more likely to cause a panic attack, which is the opposite of what we want. Now, however…" Mitch pulls Stiles up by his hair and supports him with an arm around his waist. Stiles is limp like a doll, except for his cock still standing proud.

Mitch releases Stiles' hair to give take hold of his cock instead. It's hot and throbbing in his hand and Stiles manages a few abortive thrusts while Mitch strokes him. His hand his dry but Stiles' cock is slick with sweat from being trapped under him, and the pull aches deliciously. Stiles can't bring himself to care about how pitiful his moans must sound when Mitch touches him so perfectly, bring him right back to the edge. "Clearly, he's still enjoying himself. We want to keep the pain on the fun side… for now." Stiles shivers at the threat, two simple words that Mitch presses into his skin, just for him. Something so simple shouldn't have enough power to undo him so easily, but Stiles had to grab Mitch's arm, nails digging into his skin.

"Please… please let me come," Stiles pleads desperately, his head lolling back on Mitch's shoulder. Mitch clicks his tongue at him, squeezing the base of Stiles' cock unforgivingly.

"You missed your chance for that, darling." It's a cruel kind of torture, far worse than the switch already taken to his hide, and Stiles sobs in anguish. "Sh, sh, shh, it's alright," Mitch whispers, pressing a kiss to his temple. He releases Stiles' cock in favor of lightly running his fingertips up and down the length. Stiles is so painfully sensitive that he pushes his hips back, and feel Mitch hard against his ass. Mitch grabs his hip to steady him, grinds against his bruised ass, and Stiles whimpers at the dizzying sensation.

"We're halfway through, Stiles," Mitch promises. He runs his broad palms down Stiles' sides and thighs, a soothing repetition up and down, until his sniffles die down. "Are you good?"

"Y-yeah." _God_ , but it's intense. Stiles sniffles and turns his face for a kiss that Mitch graciously grants him, caresses his tear-stained cheek. "'M green."

"Don't push yourself," Mitch says even as he lays Stiles back down, already planning to give him a thorough massage once this is over. He's more than earned it for his performance so far, and the hardest part is yet to come.

After getting Stiles situated, Mitch continues. He picks up the second switch, a narrow piece about the width of his pinkie. In front of him Stiles is lying tense and taught like a bowstring—the thinner switches always hurt so much more, like they were slicing into his flesh. Mitch puts his hand on the back of Stiles' thigh and softly rubs it, waiting until the tension—and anxiety—dissipates. He wants Stiles to enjoy it, and he can't do that if he's coiled up tight.

"Switches come in a range of sizes," he says, punctuating his sentence with a swift strike. Like before the switch whistles through the air, higher pitched and faster. The sound of its impact is covered by Stiles' full-bodied scream. "Work with your partner to find which works best for you. Thin ones like this have less surface area to diffuse the force behind it. It's a lot of pain concentrated in a very small area. And I need to warn you that if you aren't careful, you can and _will_ break skin. The thinner the switch, and the harder you use it, the more likely you are to split your partner open like an overripe peach. Try not to do that." Stiles' skin is welting up nicely from each blow, but his skin is otherwise unblemished. The bruising won't show up until much later. "For that reason, it's safest to start with a more middle-ground switch, like the first one I showed you. The rule of thumb _is_ intended to prevent lasting damage, after all."

Stiles is outright sobbing as Mitch continues to spank him, one strike after each sentence. The thin switch has painful welts crisscrossing up and down his thighs. It's an insidious burning that seeps deep into him and after everything Mitch has already put his poor backside through tonight, it's too much.

"Yellow," Stiles sobs, feeling like Mitch is doing his level best to flay him. Mitch immediately puts the switch down and comes around to Stiles' front to offer him a bottle of water. While Stiles drinks, Mitch puts a hand on the back of his neck and smoothly transitions into his lecture. His touch is grounding, a comforting kind of warmth rather than the burning heat painting his thighs and ass.

"An important factor in choosing a switch is the material. These are willow, which I’d recommend for the purists out there. It's flexible, something you always want for things like this, but the wood is sturdy. Treat it well, and it'll last for years." Mitch grins sharply. "It also makes for good psychological punishment if you assign their maintenance to your partner before or after a scene."

Stiles hands the water back to Mitch, almost empty. He always gets so dehydrated during intense scenes from how much he sweats and cries. The thinnest switch is a struggle to handle by itself, and he's eager to move on from it.

"A good set of wood switches can be pricey, and while I think the cost is worth it, there are cheaper alternatives. Like with crops, you can also get them in a variety of synthetic materials, or even improvise your own. But please, for the love of God, do _not_ just go outside and pick up the first sizeable branch you find; that's just asking for injury. Look up how to correctly make one, first."

"Green," Stiles mumbles once Mitch is done speaking, shimmying his hips in place. His erection has flagged somewhat, but he's still half-hard and interested.

Mitch bends down to quietly ask, "Do you want me to skip to the end?"

"No, I can make it." Stiles scrubs his face with his hands and smiles earnestly; there are only two items left, he can handle it.

"If you're sure." Mitch gives him his customary forehead kiss and walks back to the desk, running his hand down the back of one thigh as he goes. He gives Stiles a fond pat on his sensitive rump—though his ass is nowhere near as sore as his thighs, since Mitch has been neglecting it—and picks up the last and largest switch.

"Now, rules are made to be broken, right? If you want something with a little more heft, you can get a thicker switch like this." Mitch laid it gently across Stiles' thighs, making him feel the intimidating width of it.

"Before I start: yes, this looks somewhat like a cane. No, it is _not_ a cane. Beginners, please don't use a cane. Once again, the whole point of a switch is that it has give," Mitch demonstrates by bowing back the switch, then letting it spring back into place with a—comparatively—light slap against Stiles' ass, "and it's not likely to cause any lasting damage." Mitch pulls the switch back to hit Stiles properly, and Stiles grunts under the force behind it, the air knocked out of his lungs.

"When it comes to impact play, you want to keep it to places with enough meat to protect your partner from actual injury." Mitch grabs a handful of Stiles' ass for emphasis, making him hiss through his teeth. "That's why ass and thighs are the popular choice. Or you can slap their cheek; unfortunately, Stiles' position prevents that." Mitch sighs like he's genuinely put out about that, and runs his hand up to rest between Stiles' shoulder blades instead, idly petting his skin. "I'd say the second-best place is right here. This is better for a crop or a whip than a switch, though. If your partners ass needs a break, consider giving some attention to their shoulders."

Stiles rolls his shoulders and neck; he knows Mitch plans to give him plenty of attention there soon enough. For now, Mitch drags his nails down his spine and gets back into position, bringing the switch down on Stiles' ass again, harder this time. He can feel the vibration in his bones.

"This one has the opposite effect of the thin switch. More surface area means that it has a duller impact. Think of it like taking a punch; would you say that sounds accurate, Stiles?"

"Yes, sir," Stiles grunts, hissing as the force of the next blow lifts him up onto his toes.

Despite Stiles' reassurances before they continued, Mitch spends little time with the final switch, explaining it to the audience as, "This one is more for your sake, it's not my favorite tool to use. A little too cumbersome. But because of how thick it is, you can get some real weight behind it. Good for dolling out some real punishment, but I don't think Stiles has earned that, tonight." There are some sounds of disagreement from the crowd, several individuals encouraging to keep going, but Mitch ignored them. His priority was Stiles' safety and enjoyment.

The final item is the one they probably get the must use out of: a cat-o-nine-tails, or flogger. Stiles stretches in anticipation, arching his back and standing on his toes, his arms folded under his head. After the evening's activities, his ass and thighs are in the perfect condition for his final punishment; red and raw and aching.

Screaming is cathartic, and it's no different here. Mitch hardly has to put any force behind his blows; the strips of leather slap against his skin with a crack like lightning, and Stiles is almost climbing out of his skin to get away from it. At home they would do this with music playing, something with a pounding base line for Mitch to keep tempo with, beating each pulse into his body.

Unlike the switches, Mitch gives Stiles barely any pause between strikes. Only a moment or two, leisurely circling his wrist in a figure eight; the flail would land on one cheek, and then the other a second later. A mind-numbing, searing rhythm, stripping his flesh until Stiles is nothing more than a sobbing, trembling mess on the stand.

Drool pools obscenely below his mouth, mixing with his tears, and still Mitch whips him. Every writhing attempt at escape drives Stiles' hips into the padded platform beneath him and it's like wires crossing in his brain, making him see sparks, pleasure mixing with pain all down his spine.

"Stop, stop!" Stiles cries when he can't take it anymore. Mitch doesn't finish the strike he was about to land against Stiles' skin, instead gently trailing the flail down Stiles' back. The tails tickle where they drag over his skin, and even that small touch is too much.

"That's all for the demonstration," Mitch announces. The audiences' response is a mix of appreciation and disappointment. Mitch ignores them, instead focusing on coaxing a still-crying Stiles to his feet. He's like a newborn fawn, his legs shaking and unsteady, but Mitch doesn't mind supporting him fully. He takes Stiles to the very front of the stage and holds him up.

"Turn around and show everyone your pretty ass, darling," Mitch orders, petting Stiles' side. Stiles gingerly turns for him, looping his arms around Mitch's shoulders to hold himself up, needing the comfort of his touch. He puts his red, welted backside on display and muffles his quiet sobs against Mitch's chest.


	2. Aftercare

"You did so good for me today, baby," Mitch praises. Stiles is exhausted, slumped into his chest and barely keeping his eyes open. He can only manage a weak groan in response to show he's listening. Mitch doesn't mind. The seminar took a lot out of Stiles; it'll be a little while before he's fully coherent again.

The elevator takes a few minutes to get to their floor; frequent stops caused by people coming and going make the short trip take longer than Mitch would like. They do get a few looks, Stiles especially. He looks like a wreck, his eyes red and face blotchy from crying, dressed in sweats and a hoody. Compared to Mitch who looks far more put together, wearing black and keeping a protective—possessive—arm around Stiles' waist. They probably look up to no good, but thankfully no one gives any indication of knowing what they were up to for the last hour. They're able to get to their room without incident.

Stiles is trembling. He kept his head down the entire way back to their room to hide his tear-stained face, afraid someone would look at him and instantly _know._

Mitch coaxes him to put his arms overhead long enough to pull off his hoodie, and tosses it aside. Next come the sweatpants—Mitch takes special care sliding them down Stiles' lean legs, and presses a kiss to his ankle once they're off. Even that soft material chafes achingly against his skin, and the sheets aren't much better.

"Turn over."

Stiles does. The relief is immediate, easing the pressure on his ass and thighs. His skin is raw, reels like an exposed nerve when Mitch smooths his palms up his legs, feeling the burning heat of his skin. Stiles collapses face first into one of the fluffy pillows, using it to muffle his groan.

After everything Mitch put him through tonight, he _still_ hasn't come. Stiles lost his erection at the end, but he can feel himself hardening against the sheets again, can't help rubbing against them even though it _hurts._ It's not enough of a deterrent to keep him from desperately chasing his orgasm. Stiles cries into the pillow when the frustration keeps him from reaching completion.

"Stop, Stiles," Mitch tells him, gentle but firm. He puts his hands on Stiles' hips to still his fruitless rutting.

"I just want to come," Stiles sobs, his shoulders shaking.

"I know. But you need to relax, first." Mitch kneads soft circles into Stiles' hips with his thumbs. "Don't I always take care of you?"

"Y-yeah…."

"Let me give you what you need, darling."

"Okay." Stiles sniffles pitifully, trying to gain some composure. Mitch is a steady, calm presence behind him, gently petting his skin until Stiles calms down. He turns his head on the pillow to speak clearly when he feels like he finally can. "Okay, I trust you."

"Thank you." Stiles closes his eyes when Mitch leans down to kiss his forehead, sighing softly. "Once I get you taken care of, how about a bath, hm?"

Imagining the hot water against his skin makes Stiles shudder with the faint memory of a cleansing kind of pain. It sounds like exactly what he needs right now; something to wash away the sweat and tears of the day.

Mitch cards his fingers through Stiles' sweat damp hair once, sliding his hand down to the back of Stiles' neck where he can gently knead it, working out the tension until Stiles is sighing in bliss. He follows his touch with a kiss, pressing his lips in a deliberate path down Stiles spine, slowly working his way lower. He doesn't stop until he reaches Stiles' lower back, almost able to feel the heat radiating off of Stiles' skin a few inches away.

"You did so good for me today," Mitch praises. He takes the bottle of aloe gel off the nightstand—left there before the seminar for convenience—and squeezes a generous amount into his hand. Stiles hisses when he rubs it into his skin, starting with his thighs and working up to his ass. The welts aren't so raised and angry anymore, but the pain that caused them has fully sunk in. Stiles' hiss softens into an appreciative groan as the aloe works to soothe his inflamed flesh. Mitch's palms are gentle, careful not to aggravate Stiles' injuries any more than necessary as he kneads the abused muscle, using just enough pressure to make Stiles ache wonderfully and curl his toes into the sheet.

Stiles spreads his legs when Mitch's hands dip between his thighs, arcing his hips up with clear want. "God, I want to fuck you," Mitch groans, cupping Stiles' ass. It would be so easy, too. Stiles is loose-limbed and pliant for him, it would be nothing for Mitch to slick him up and slide inside, while he's soft and defenseless. "I won't, though." He smiles when Stiles grumbles in dissatisfaction, but he knows it will be a few days before Stiles can comfortably take anything. They play hard tonight; the welts and bruising will need time to heal.

Mitch is perfectly happy to admire his handiwork instead, massaging layers of aloe into Stiles' skin until some of the angry redness begins to fade. He rubs Stiles shoulders and massages his back until he's drooling onto the pillow for an entirely different reason than before, unable to keep his eyes open.

"Turn over for me, darling." Mitch has to nudge Stiles into action, stroking his flank when he winces. The aloe helped, but it doesn't take away the pain entirely. Still, Stiles stays where he's put.

Stiles' cock is lying soft against his thigh, and Mitch fully intends to change that. He performed so well today, Mitch doesn't want to send him off to bed before getting him to come at least once.

"Tell me if you need me to stop." Mitch waits until Stiles nods in acknowledgement to kiss a path along the inside of his thigh. Stiles spreads them to make more from for him, groaning when Mitch pulls the leg over his shoulder. It feels like he's stretching an aching muscle after a hard workout—a deep, well-used kind of pain that makes his toes curl, and his cock start to swell with interest.

Mitch is gentle with him now, keeping his touches light, meant to soothe the hurt. He doesn't want to overstimulate Stiles again—now he just wants to give Stiles nothing but pleasure. He picks up Stiles' cock and runs the flat of his tongue in a slow drag from base to tip, and that alone as Stiles shaking. "Too much?" he asks, his lips rasping over the head.

"Keep going," Stiles pleas on a whisper. He sinks his hand into Mitch's hair to hold him in place. Out of it as he is, he's still careful not to pull.

Mitch presses open-mouthed, sucking kisses along Stiles' length, coaxing him to full hardness. As soon as he feels Stiles other hand digging into his shoulder he stops teasing, slowly taking Stiles into his mouth. First, he only suckles at the tip, circling the corona with his tongue, then pulling away to gently blow over it, making Stiles shiver. Every time he takes Stiles deeper, until his throat aches and Stiles is squirming under his careful attention.

He only pulls away to say, "Come whenever you want," knowing Stiles still needs permission in this state. His voice is rough, like he's the one that spent the past out getting fucked, and Stiles whimpers prettily. Mitch swallows him down again, sucking half of Stiles' cock and stroking the rest, a slow, steady rhythm until Stiles finally comes undone. He shakes apart when his orgasm finally hits him, arcing up and crying and digging his blunt nails into Mitch's skin. And Mitch keeps sucking him through it until he hears Stiles' gasps begin to turn to pained whines. Only then does he pull away and place a light kiss on the tip, before releasing Stiles entirely.

"Thank you," Stiles mumbles when Mitch lays out beside him.

"My pleasure, darling." Mitch wraps his arm around Stiles, holds him against his chest and kisses the top of his head. He's still hard and aching in his jeans but ignores it for now; he can take care of himself later.

***

"You're still wearing clothes," Stiles grouses unhappily a while later, when he's managed to come back to himself. He slits his eyes open just enough to halfheartedly glare, and tugs at Mitch's shirt in annoyance.

"You're welcome to change that," he says, amused. Stiles picks at the buttons with one hand, deftly undoing his shirt, but makes no move to get off Mitch so he can fully remove it. Instead Stiles slides inside and splays his hand out over Mitch's chest.

"I love you," Stiles sighs.

"I love you, too." Mitch tilts Stiles' chin up for a soft kiss. Now that Stiles is steady, Mitch still has some things to take care of. He reluctantly pulls away, despite Stiles' protests. He's somewhat soothed when Mitch strips down to his briefs—at least Stiles has a nice view from the lonely bed.

Mitch gets two bottles of water from the minifridge before joining Stiles in bed again. "Do you think you can hold yourself up?" he asks, noting how exhausted Stiles still looks.

"Probably." _I don't want to, though._ Mitch smiles knowingly at him—they've been through this routine enough times that Mitch knows what he wants. He climbs into bed behind Stiles so that he can lean against the headboard, and Stiles can lean against him. Stiles melts into his chest with a content sigh, tilting his head back on Mitch's shoulder. He presses a grateful kiss to Mitch's jaw.

"Here." Mitch cracks open the water and holds it to Stiles' lips when he makes no move to take it himself, gradually tipping it up as Stiles slowly sips it. "Good boy," Mitch tells him, nuzzling his temple with a smile.

***

"Still want that bath?" Stiles is barely awake, lying half-conscious on his chest while Mitch pets him like a cat. He stretches languidly and nods.

"Bath time," Stiles agrees sleepily, with a soft, beautiful smile that Mitch can help but kiss.

This time Mitch doesn't bother with pretenses. He moves Stiles off of him so he can stand, then picks Stiles up to carry him into the bathroom. "Mmm, so strong," Stiles coos, patting his bicep appreciatively.

"You are so stoned." This is one of Mitch's favorite parts. When Stiles is riding the post-scene high, soft and pliant and relaxed, unburdened by his everyday worries and anxiety. Mitch has to put Stiles down so he can run the taps, but Stiles still gravitates to him like a sunflower following the sun. "Is that too hot?" Stiles sticks his hand under the faucet and shakes his head.

"Nope, it's perfect. Now get naked." Stiles gets into the tub, and the hot water reignites the ache in his thighs. He sinks into it with an appreciative groan while Mitch takes off his briefs, then moves forward to make room for Mitch to get in behind him. "I feel so good," he hums. Mitch settles his arms around Stiles middle and nuzzles the sensitive crook behind his ear.

"Good," Mitch whispers.

Stiles lets his eyes fall closed and leans back into Mitch fully. The white noise of the faucet is the only sound between them. Stiles drifts in the pleasant haze of afterglow and exhaustion as the tub fills around them, the steam turning his hair damp and making it stick against his skin. He swirls his hands through the water and lifts his arm to watch wispy white clouds rise from his skin. "Should've put bubbles," he says around a yawn.

"Hm. You always say that, but then you hate it."

"'Cause they're impossible to get rid of." Stiles has a complicated relationship with bubbles. That doesn't change the fact they add to the overall atmosphere, though. "Still."

"Next time," Mitch promises indulgently. Once the bath is full he reaches past Stiles to turn off the taps, and retrieves body wash and a washcloth. He slowly soaps up Stiles' body, scrubbing down his arms and across his chest, pushing him forward to wash his back.

"Do you think you're up for tomorrow, or do you want to stay in the room?" Stiles tilts his head back to smile.

"I think I'll be fine. No switches, though."

"No switches," Mitch agrees. He drapes the washcloth over the tubs edge for now and smooths his hands up Stiles' back. Stiles sighs happily, tilting his head forward in acceptance of the back rub. Strong hands knead into his muscles and rub them smooth, undoing the ever-present knots until Stiles felt like jelly.

"You're really good at that." Mitch has always been good with his hands, able to mold Stiles into whatever shape pleases him.

"Thanks." Mitch dusts a few kisses against the nape of Stiles' neck and across his shoulders, little expressions of affection at no particular interval.

Stiles eventually shuffles around until he can face Mitch, straddling his lap with hand son his shoulders, making Mitch look up at him. "You still haven't come yet," Stiles says. Before Mitch can protest Stiles silences him with a kiss, deep and slow and filthy. Stiles runs his hands down Mitch's chest and stomach until he reaches his cock, already getting hard from Stiles' teasing touches.

"You are a menace," Mitch tells him. Stiles tugs his bottom lip with his teeth and wraps his hand fully around him and laughs.

"Yeah, I know."

Stiles is covered in more than his fair share of marks; to even things up he reluctantly stops kissing Mitch to kiss his neck instead, sinking his teeth in to tan skin to leave a mark of his own, high enough that it will be seen by everyone tomorrow. Mitch gives him a light spank for his trouble, and Stiles retaliates with a sharp bite on his shoulder.

"Behave yourself— _fuck,_ " Mitch groans, canting his hips up when Stiles squeezes his cock.

"You like it when I'm naughty," Stiles teases.

"Lucky for you."

"Lucky me," Stiles agrees. He knows how much of a brat he is most of the time. He also knows how much Mitch loves the extra challenge.

Stiles takes Mitch's lips in a kiss again, wanting to taste his moans as he starts stroking him in earnest. Steady, strong pumps and twisting his wrist around the head the way he knows Mitch likes. He would love to have Mitch inside him instead, but even now he has to brace himself on his knees to keep the pressure off his thighs, and the awkward, half-risen position is beginning to make his legs shake from the strain.

"Fuck, Stiles," Mitch groans when he comes, burying his face against Stiles' neck and holding him close. Stiles strokes him through it until Mitch is fully spent and shuddering beneath him… and then keeps going just to torture him a little bit. Mitch has to finally catch his wrist to make him stop, a plea for mercy on the tip of his tongue.

***

After the bath they get out and dry off. Neither bother to put on clothes, collapsing into bed naked and boneless. Mitch makes sure his phone is plugged into the charger and that his alarm for tomorrow morning in on, then pulls Stiles into him. It's not even 10:00pm yet, but both are asleep in no time, their limbs entwined in a lover's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing in present tense *so much*. After this fic is done, never again. n e v e r


	3. Epilogue

"Noo," Stiles groans when Mitch's alarm goes off in the morning, burying his face against his lover's chest. Mitch laughs and rubs his hand down Stiles' back.

"Good morning to you, too, babe."

"Don't wanna get up." It's 9:00am; Stiles got more than enough sleep, but he's still tired. Mitch wore him out good last night. He felt like he could sleep for another _week._

"You can stay in bed, but I need to take a shower." Stiles reluctantly allows Mitch to push him off, pouting up at him when Mitch stood up.

"Who thought it would be a good idea to do this in the _morning_?" he complains.

"I'm pretty sure most people will be checking out this morning." He and Stiles don't have to worry about getting their belongings together to check out and travel back home after the seminar is over, thankfully. They're going to stay in San Francisco for two more days. "I'll be back in a few. You should order us breakfast."

"Hmm." Stiles rolls onto his side so he can watch Mitch leave; or more specifically, watch his muscular ass. _Gorgeous man,_ Stiles thinks, sighing wistfully. After Mitch disappears into the bathroom Stiles turns onto his back and stretches languidly. His backside isn't as freshly sore today. He still aches, but it's not the same raw-nerve pain from before.

Stiles will get up and get dressed in a few minutes, but for now he wants to enjoy the pleasant morning haze. Everything is soft and airy and _nice,_ a decadent afterglow.

After a few minutes, Stiles' stomach wakes up along with the rest of him, growling plaintively. He reaches blindly for the menu on the nightstand. Room service is a luxury he couldn't often afford on the short trips he and his dad used to take, but with Mitch he is free to order anything he pleases, and has been taking terrible advantage of that the past two days. Today, in anticipation of the morning's events, he keeps it simple and only orders omelets and cut fruit for them both. They can get something more exciting for lunch, later. _Ooh, maybe we could go to Boudin…_

***

Mitch comes back out of the bathroom still naked and toweling his damp hair, a cloud of steam following him.

"Sexy," Stiles praises, looking him up and down. He definitely appreciates Mitch's lack of modesty; it's one of his favorite things about him.

"You're not so bad yourself. Even though you kind of look like a hamster," Mitch teases. He ruffles Stiles' hair when he gets close enough, the short strands sticking up all over the place.

"Ha-ha, jokes on you 'cause hamsters are cute." Mitch smiles and gives him a minty kiss, with a soft agreement of, "very cute."

Mitch tosses his towel over the back of a chair and gets a fresh pair of briefs to put on, the only concession he's willing to make to decency for now. When he turns around Stiles tosses the bottle of aloe at his chest. "Lube me up, handsome," he says, wiggling his eyebrows. Mitch rolls his eyes fondly.

"Turn over."

Stiles does as he told, kicking back the covers and turning onto his stomach, shimmying his butt until Mitch gives it a light spank. The aloe is cold against his hot skin, a brief shock, but he doesn’t mind. It jolts him awake, and only takes a few seconds to warm up anyway, from the friction of Mitch massaging it into him with broad strokes. It almost reminds him of the time he was 13 and got a severe sunburn, and spent the next morning lathering layer upon layer of aloe lotion into his crimson shoulder. Like drinking milk to chase away the burn of hot sauce, the relief it offered was temporary. As soon as the aloe soaked into his skin, he would have to put on more. He probably spent half an hour in the bathroom, and used up almost the entire bottle.

"We should go to the pier later," he says, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

"Alright," Mitch agrees easily. "If you think you'll be up for it."

When a knock sounds on the door, Stiles burrows back under the covers and Mitch finally pulls on a pair of pants, before going to retrieve their breakfast. Perfect timing, too; Stiles is _starving._

***

Today's events are going to be easier than yesterday. Their demonstration had to be cut short in order to make room for aftercare, meaning the Q & A had to be pushed to this morning, but Stiles doesn't mind. He wouldn't have been in a place to coherently participate last night. After some much-needed rest and recuperation, though, he was ready to tackle the last day of the seminar. And then after their allotted time slot, he'll have Mitch all to himself, again.

Mitch is dressed similar to yesterday; a sleek black button down with the sleeves folded up to his forearms, black pants, and nice leather shoes. He doesn't care for the more cliché "dom dress code" that's usually made up of leather or latex; both are too stiff and stifling for him. Stiles is wearing the same sweats and hoodie from before, but underneath them he's bound in careful rope work. The silk ropes are soft against his skin, just restricting enough to be exciting, without leaving him feeling hindered. Today they're accentuating rather than restraining.

"Are you ready?" Mitch asks when they reach the same exhibit hall as before. Stiles nods and accepts the kiss Mitch presses to his forehead, smiling softly.

There are a few minutes before the show is supposed to start, that they spend milling around with those already gathered, mingling and making small talk. Stiles recognizes some faces from yesterday, but most are unfamiliar.

When it's time, Stiles follows Mitch onto the stage and strips off his clothes, displaying the black ropes entwined elegantly over his pale body. Mitch did very good work, and the audience responds appreciatively. A pretty blush colors Stiles' cheeks.

After giving the audience a chance to get a good look at Stiles, Mitch brings him back over to where they began yesterday. Stiles kneels down on the provided cushion, getting into position exactly the way he was trained, with his head bowed and his wrists crossed over his lower back.

"For the next hour we'll be answering any questions you may have had yesterday," Mitch says, caressing the back of Stiles' neck. Stiles closes his eyes and basks in the gentle touch.

"What's the rope he's wearing called?" is the first question. "I've seen that style before."

"Shibari," Mitch answers. "It's a type of Japanese bondage."

"What does it feel like?"

"Stiles?"

Stiles didn't expect to have a question directed at him so soon. He looks up at the young woman that asked and says breathlessly, "Really good." Several people—including Mitch—laugh at his too-honest answer. Stiles clears his throat and tries again. "Um, it depends on how you do it, I guess. Right now, it kind of feels like a hug, if that makes sense? Like, it's really secure. I can still move around, but I can definitely feel the rope. At home Mitch uses some more intricate knots to hold me in certain positions; the ropes are sturdier than handcuffs because they can cover more surface area."

"I've got Stiles in a harness right now; they can have varying degrees of mobility. They also serve as an anchor point if you want to try suspension, but you have to be more careful with that, as the pressure from the ropes can cause nerve damage if you don't do it right," Mitch adds, never one to downplay the risks associated with BDSM. "I’d recommend finding someone experienced to learn more advanced tricks from. But harnesses are a good start; there are even some you can do on yourself, if that's your thing."

"Thank you," the woman says, and Mitch picks someone else in the crowd.

"What are your favorite things to use from yesterday?"

"Hmm, good question." Mitch idly traces his fingers of the ropes crisscrossing Stiles' back, straightening some of them while he thinks. "Probably the switches. Or just plain old spanking; I like to feel how hot Stiles' skin gets."

"I like the flail," Stiles says without hesitation, and can't resist teasing, "And I _hate_ the switches." Well, that isn't _strictly_ true—Stiles only hates the thin one, but it entertains the audience to see him bite back.

"Do you guys have a D/s relationship?"

"Not really," Stiles responds before Mitch can. Mitch yanks chidingly on his harness.

"Not this weekend, apparently," he says, exasperated. "We incorporate some elements from D/s—it's hard not to, especially during scenes—but it's not a focal point in our relationship. I don't think anyone could control Stiles for long, anyhow."

"I bet I could," an older man calls from the audience. He has a thick grey beard and looks like a sailor, and Stiles only just keeps himself from bristling; he doesn't _want_ anyone else but Mitch, thank you very much. Stiles tells himself the man didn't mean anything serious by it, and Mitch chooses to ignore his comment.

"What kind of aftercare should we do following impact play?"

"Plain aloe lotion, and some pain killers if you went really hard. And expect your sub to need a few days to recover."

"Giving them a massage also wouldn't he a terrible idea," Stiles adds. "You tense up a lot when you're bracing for the pain. My back and shoulders were pretty tight last night." His hands were sore too from staying balled up and clenched, and his nails digging into his palms.

"This kind of play can be very emotionally draining for both of you. Afterwards when you're coming down, take the time to fully separate yourself from the scene; if it's an intense scene, think about giving aftercare in a completely different location to really emphasize that it's over." That was part of the reason their demonstration was cut in half; they could have done it earlier in the day and had Mitch give Stiles aftercare right there, but he preferred to keep it separate from scenes. And he wanted to be in an environment he had more control over. "Best practice would be to check in with each other and escalate slowly; take breaks if you need them, and know your limits. It's okay if you can't get through your entire kit in one scene."

Stiles notices someone far off to the left, shyly raising their hand, and gestures for them to speak.

"It's Stiles, right?" they ask. He nods and gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. "How do you reconcile… this… with your relationship?" they ask carefully, and oh Stiles recognizes that tone. He can tell Mitch does too by the way he tenses up. Stiles carefully considers his words.

"It… wasn't easy, at first," Stiles begins, then shakes his head. "I'll be honest, my last relationship was hell, in every sense of the word. Mitch is actually the one that showed me that there _is_ a difference between BDSM and abuse, and while my boyfriend called it the former, it was very much the latter.

"The main difference is that I consent to everything Mitch does before he does it. And if something changes, whether I don't like it or it's too much or I'm just not in the mood, I can make it stop. I don't ever have to do anything I don't want to do. And afterwards, Mitch takes care of me; I'd never even had aftercare before him."

"Your partner should always respect you and your relationship," Mitch said meaningfully.

"Yeah… anyway. If you want, you can stay after and talk more with us about it," Stiles offers. "Y'know, without having to shout across an audience. And I can put some clothes on." The gentle jibe breaks the tension, and the person that asked nods gratefully.

"Why do you like spanking?" comes the next question, from someone in a faded band t-shirt.

"Why do you like Aerosmith?" Mitch snarks back.

"'Cause they're good?"

"So is spanking." Stiles snorts, adjusting his position. "It's just a personal preference. Next question?"

"Have you ever subbed before?"

"… Yes." That causes some interested murmurs amongst the audience, and Mitch rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, shut up. Next question?"

"How'd you get into the scene?"

"I met someone who was already into it, and she introduced me to it. Then years later, Stiles met me."

"How romantic."

"Totally. I've already told him he needs to propose with a cockring if he wants me to say yes," Stiles says, snickering. If people were going to make sarcastic comments, he's going to respond in kind.

"Is there going to be another demonstration."

"Maybe. It depends if we have any time at the end," Mitch answers. Stiles can already imagine some in the audience debating whether or not they can just google their questions later, if it means getting another chance to see Mitch spank him again. He did bring his trusty flail just in case.

***

In the end, they have just under 15 minutes left of their allotted time slot. Mitch takes his time teasing the audience, deliberating over whether to give them a little show or not, something for the road.

Given that they're going out later, he doesn't want to put Stiles through _too_ much; not to mention last night was intense, and for both their sakes, Mitch doesn't like to have more than one scene like that back to back, preferring have at least a week or so break between.

Stiles changes his kneeling position, bracing his arms behind him on the floor and arching his back enticingly, offer up his chest. His nipples are stiffened to taught little peaks from the slight draft in the room, and excitement from being watched. Mitch teases him by brushing the tails of the flail just barely over his skin, the light sensation ticklish.

Stiles keeps his eyes closed so he doesn't know what's coming. The flail slapping against his skin with some actual force behind it startles him, but doesn't really hurt. Not like it did yesterday.

Mitch hits him a few times, just to make his chest red, then has him turn around to give the same treatment to his back. He's harder this time, flailing Stiles' upper back, until his shoulders are striped red and just starting to get sore.

Bonus Deleted Scene (Chapter 1)

It's near impossible for Stiles to keep still. His hands are itching to reach down and wrap around his cock, finally, _finally_ stroke himself to completion. It would be so easy since Mitch left his hands free—Stiles is starting to realize that was just another form of torture. There's nothing forcing him to obey, keeping him in line. Every bit of his obedience to Mitch's commands come down to his own will power, and his so _weak_ right now.

"Mitch," Stiles whines, squirming in place. He stuffs his hands under his thighs to keep from putting them where he wants them, digging his nails into his abused flesh. It does nothing to discourage his erection—if anything, the bite of pain only makes him harder. "I can't—please, I _can't._ "

"That's alright, baby. Give me your hands." Stiles does so without hesitation, throwing them over his head with a speed that makes Mitch laugh. Mitch holds both of Stiles' wrists in one hand, pinning them down with enough force to make his bones grin together, certain to bruise. He wraps his free hand around Stiles' throat—a possessive hold, heavy with intent, not pressure—and thumbs Stiles' chin up. "Look at me, Stiles."

Stiles tries. He opens his eyes and can barely make out Mitch's form through his tears, an abstract painting before him. They leak from the corners of his eyes and catch in his already damp hair as he cries, ragged gasps more than sobs.

"It's alright, know your limitations, darling. It's what I'm here for; keeping you in line when you can't behave yourself."

"I-I-I'm so-sorry," Stiles gasps. Mitch smiles at him sweetly; he's cruel, but never mean.

"I know. But you're being so good for me. Just a little more, then I'll let you come, hm?"

Stiles nods jerkily, clenching his hands into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

"Turn over," Mitch orders, and Stiles does, shaking and trembling so bad that he almost falls onto the floor, slipping in his own fluids. His face is a blotchy red mess and he can hardly breathe for his sobbing, and Mitch still looks at him like the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Stiles lets his head drop back and his legs fall open, his arms pulled up to his head to keep them out of the way.

Mitch teases him at first, runs the flail down his chest, so like it feels like the whisper of a kiss on his skin. "Close your eyes," Mitch says, and Stiles does without question. A ragged moan is ripped out of him when the leather strips tickle the oversensitive head of his cock, and he almost arches off the table. Mitch has to hold his hips down to keep him still.

Stiles thinks he's ready when Mitch pulls away. He always thinks he's ready, and every single time he's wrong. Nothing can prepare him for the sudden, harsh sting of dozens of thin strips cutting into him. Mitch is very deliberate in his aim, striking the inside of one thigh, then the other. Not so much as a single strip catches Stiles' cock—impressive, with how close they land—and Stiles doesn't know whether to cry from frustration or relief. He's so close, just needs something, anything—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, not my finest work, but I'm just pleased to have finished a wip for the first time in f o r e v e r. And we did get a little look at the main story line re: Stiles' last relationship/how he and Mitch got together.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a proper BSM fic in ages! This one is actually part of a much larger AU I've had floating around my head for a while, and this installation in particular takes place a few years after the main storyline. But until I get the plot locked down on the main fic, I think I'm just going to post shorter works like this one and see what they does for my productivity. 
> 
> The main idea of this series is Stiles exploring the world of BDSM, with Mitch (literally) showing him the ropes. Which means that outside of the main fic, these shorter works are pretty much fair game to go anywhere! So if there's a particular dynamic/kink you'd like to see... drop me a comment or send me an ask! I'm always open to suggestions, but for this series in particular. Let's call it world-building ;) Also, tag suggestions would be wonderful.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy! 
> 
> The end of this chapter was giving me problems, hence the abrupt ending. The next chapter will be a direct follow-up containing the aftercare. DW, Mitch isn't going to leave poor Stiles hanging after all that.


End file.
